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"You will," I interject, my voice steady. "You have to."
"It's a risk," he admits, words measured like the cut of a diamond. "But risks are the currency we trade in. We'll do it—for family, for honor."
With a nod that seals his fate to action, he entrusts me to Sandra's care, his stare a silent plea wrapped in a command. And she, with her ironclad gaze, nods back—a warrior's vow to protect what's precious.
As Damien sets off on his perilous quest, I watch the door close behind him, feeling the gravity of the moment. In his absence, Sandra and I are not just two women waiting; we are sentinels guarding the gates, keepers of the flame that must not be extinguished.
Chapter 18
Mariya
The clock's relentless march toward dawn does nothing to ease the tight knot of worry in my stomach. I trace the outline of the plan in my mind, each step a delicate dance with danger. Damien's part in it all weighs heaviest—his safety is the thread upon which my newfound peace dangles.
The door creaks open softly, and he steps into the dim light of the guest bedroom, a shadow stitched from the night itself. I sit up, the blanket pooling at my waist, my hands already reaching for him.
"How did it go?" My voice is a whisper, a breeze against the storm of my concern.
He doesn't speak at first, just offers a weary smile as he sits on the edge of the bed, his wound a grimace upon his flesh. I move behind him, gingerly peeling back the bandage to inspect the healing beneath. My fingers are gentle but purposeful, each touch a silent promise to soothe and mend.
"You should be resting," he murmurs, the gruffness of his voice belying the tenderness in his eyes as he glances over his shoulder at me.
"And you should be invincible," I retort softly, dabbing at the tender skin with a damp cloth. "But we play the cards we're dealt."
He chuckles, the sound rough but warm, like gravel washed in sunshine. "You're quite the nurse, Mariya."
I lean forward, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck. "Only for the most deserving patients." The intimacy of the act, the closeness in the silence of the night—it's a comfort, a small island of peace in the turmoil that awaits.
He turns then, his hands finding mine, his fingers lacing with my own. "We'll get through this," he says, conviction steeling his words.
I nod, my heart in my throat. "I know. I trust you. But I'm scared, Damien. Isn't there another way?" The question hangs between us, a plea for reassurance.
He squeezes my hands, a firm grip that anchors me to the here and now. "There's no one else, Mariya. After the raid, we're scattered and vulnerable. We need to act, and we need to act fast."
"But what about the others? Roman, Samuil?" Hope flickers, a weak flame in the draft of reality.
"They're on their way, but time isn't a luxury we possess." His green eyes hold mine, steady and resolute. "I have to do this. It's not just about blood ties; it's about the survival of everything we stand for."
My heart races, a drumbeat echoing my fear. "But at what cost, Damien? You're already wounded. What if—"
He cuts me off, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. "Don't. Don't let 'what ifs' cloud the moment. We have a plan, and I intend to see it through."
I search his face, the lines of determination that set his jaw, the shadows of the night that cling to his features. He's more than a figurehead of power; he's a man propelled by a duty that runs deeper than the blood he's already shed.
"Promise me you'll come back," I whisper, the words barely escaping the tightness in my chest.
"I promise," he replies, and in his voice, I hear the unspoken addendum, an assurance that he'll move heaven and earth to keep it.
The silence of the room is our sanctuary, a quiet so profound it amplifies the gentle brush of his lips against mine. As we speak, words soft and laden with emotion, there's a palpable sense of something more profound passing between us. It's the kind of connection that roots deep within the soul, unshakeable and raw in its intensity.
"I'll keep you safe," he says, his voice a soothing balm to the storm of my anxieties. “I swear it.”
"I know," I reply, my trust in him as certain as the dawn that creeps upon the night. "You have so far."
Our gazes lock, an entire conversation held in the span of a heartbeat. Suddenly, we're lost in the tender urgency of our kiss, a slow exchange of lips and breath that speaks of need and a hunger too long denied.
Clothes become a mere afterthought, discarded with a carelessness that speaks of deeper necessities. The slide of fabric, the feel of skin against skin, it all melds into a symphony of sensation as we come together beneath the soft cocoon of the covers.
I take a moment to appreciate his body, a powerful machine. His shoulders are broad, tapering down to a narrow waist and then to the firm, rounded swell of his rear. Each muscle seems carved from stone, flexing subtly with even the smallest movement.
